


Alone with the Moon

by prettybadmagic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mean Sandor, Sandor is 35, Sandor is cranky and old and wants to rest in peace, Sansa is 19, Sansa is wounded and wet and needs some help, Smut, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27073300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybadmagic/pseuds/prettybadmagic
Summary: Sandor is a retired Marine who spends his days traveling across the States in his Winnebago. A major thunderstorm has him cooped up in his van, with nothing but his hands and a vintage Playboy for company. That is, until a wild animal comes knocking.A persistent animal.Alittle bird.Begrudgingly, Sandor takes the pretty creature into his care. And you best believe he takes care of her.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 43
Kudos: 231





	Alone with the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Inspo track: [Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld - Alone with the Moon](https://youtu.be/DQhMiiHowCg)
> 
> Hi! This week on PBM's hyperfixation we have modern American SanSan. 
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing mean Sandor. To cover my bases I wanna give a content warning for violent thought patterns that are pretty consistent throughout. They border on gore. Not for everyone, please be cautious. That said, no harm comes to Sansa in Sandor's care and all sex is entirely consensual. 
> 
> This might be my favorite thing I've written to date. I love climbing inside Sandor's head. Tooth-aching fluff is woven in with angst and an outstanding level of horniness. Welcome to Sandor's world. Fee-fi-fo-fum. 
> 
> For reference, [this is what the inside of Sandor's van would look like](https://youtu.be/oOQzZo00kYw) (roughly, I've never been in one, but like, big man tiny van we have to stan) and [this sonata](https://youtu.be/cYURRQkC6zY) may or may not be important also.
> 
> Enjoy!

Disability didn't pay shit. But it paid enough for a 2017 Winnebago Revel. A tin can of a van, with a ceiling six inches shorter than Sandor's full height. He always had a masochistic streak, and that's exactly what led him to Miller's RV on a sticky Sunday afternoon, duffel full of cash. 

"Are you sure?" the fat salesman—armpits soggy, upper lip hair weeping—had asked him. He licked away that slug of sweat with a red tongue. Dragged it across a row of yellowed teeth.

Sandor shoved the duffel through a stack of papers straight into the man’s lap. "Positive." 

Sandor drove the damn thing everywhere. Had been for two years now. He didn't mind spending his days hunched over the wheel, or his nights hunched in the pullout bed, because in between, there was freedom. Sandor liked to think he lived outdoors. No ceiling could beat the sky. No better day than one spent balls-deep in the snowmelt currents of the Platte, hooking trout and sending them back. Hooking, sending. Now that was a life. Best one Sandor ever had. 

He wasn't in the Rockies, though. He was up on the eastern side of Linville Gorge, the quiet side. Shoulda been quiet, except for the thunderstorm. A real nightmare storm, the kind that had Sandor wondering if his little tin can would be taking a float downriver. But he was fully chalked. Set up a mile or so down a narrow gravel maintenance trail, potholed to all hell, in a secluded pull-off. Nothing but poplars and white oaks and ironwoods. Rhododendrons, lots of 'em. And these pretty little mushroom-looking things he'd never seen before. 

At least, he _would_ be seeing them, if it weren't for the storm. He would be roasting a goddamn rabbit right now. Drinking a bottle of that overpriced IPA he got back in Black Mountain, as fat crackled and smoked, and the scent of savory meat replaced the sweet-rot smell of damp earth. 

It was so alive here, and that was the whole damn problem. Shit moved slower out west, desert slow. No water slow. Not here. Out here, Appalachia, wherever the fuck, it was fast. Green sprouted from every vacant patch of dirt. Leaves fell, worms churned, they shit dirt and then grew more green. 

And the fucking _rain_. 

Sandor had already taken three extra-strength aspirin for his pounding headache. Bitterly fried up his last ribeye on the stove. Fuck, it was good. He hated to love every single bite. 

The rest of the night was for jerking off. Sandor had other indoor hobbies, sure. He had books. Utilitarian picks mostly, hunting and fishing guides, trail maps. Then there was his copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover, spine limp, pages velvet soft, that he stashed in the cubby beside his bed. His copy of Pride and Prejudice was even softer—he'd be damned if Austen didn't have God-tier wit—and his July 1962 issue of Playboy was the softest of all. 

He tried not to think of the softness, sharp pages dulled from what, _three_ generations of use? 

Unne Terjesen was a vision to Grandad Clegane, and she was a vision to Sandor, too. So fucking what. Besides, the pages were soft, not sticky. 

The pages were damn near memorized. Sandor reclined against his pillows, cock in hand, Levi’s low on his hips. Unne looked up at him, all bedroom eyes and pink bow lips. She had nothing but a sheer cream nightie to cover up her sweet hourglass figure. That kind of lingerie always had Sandor rock hard. The wispy see-through kind, so frail it begged to be ripped to tatters. Fuck yeah, that was good. 

He talked to Unne while he worked, in his head. A game he played based on her silly little interview on page thirty-four. _Sorry sweetheart_ , he imagined himself saying, _I can't give you that pleasing personality you're looking for in a man. But I've got common sense. I'll show you a whole cunt-load of common sense._

Unne said she disliked dull types. _I'm sharper than sin_ , was what Sandor had to say to that. _Bigger and harder, too._

She said she liked men with a sense of humor, but she never laughed back. 

He didn't need her to laugh, though. He only needed her to make him come. 

Sandor focused real hard on her perfectly symmetrical tits. Even harder on the hairless mound between her legs, thighs closed to keep the best bits secret. Secrets were good. Sandor was a masochist. He liked a challenge. 

But by the third round of the night, his material had run dry. Her quiet words were useless, especially with the rain crashing down on the roof, drowning out any would-be moans and giggles. Unne was pretty, glossy, but flat. Lifeless. 

So Sandor had to think of flesh and blood, which most of the time made him more angry than it was worth. He thought of his last lay, a bottle blonde in the bathroom of a double-wide bar in bumfuck Virginia. She wanted her brittle hair pulled while Sandor bore into her from behind, smearing layers of orange makeup on the white tile wall. She wanted Sandor to call her a dirty little slut. _I'm a bad girl_ , she croaked, in between puffs of her lipstick-stained cigarette. _Hurt me, daddy._

The daddy shit was the worst. Sandor turned into every woman's dog-faced, alcoholic father in the sack. He could still get off fine, just not as fine as he'd like. 

Men were sometimes better to think about. Furtive handjobs in the barracks. Furtive handjobs in an overheated tent, ambient gunfire and purring generators the perfect cover for stunted groans. Then there were the furtive blowjobs in the latrines, with fat flies and the stink of shit to tempt your cock back to softness. 

But the furtive fucks, God, those were premium. Sandor thought of that one time with Tormund in the shower at Leatherneck. Two in the morning, absolutely shitfaced, after a hot day of doing fuck-all. Tormund talked tough but he was smaller than Sandor. He took all ten inches like a champ. Pussy was incredible, no doubt—silky soft, wet all on its own. But plowing ass, sticking your cock where only the devil himself would want it. 

That was the good shit. 

The tight shit. 

It was a challenge. The perfect secret. The wink at your buddy later, make his cock stiff over your next pile of grey scrambled eggs kind of secret. 

This secret had Sandor ready to blow. He was one hand on his balls, one hand choking the life out of himself ready. He was back there, buried in Tormund's ass, tugging his ginger hair, making him whimper like a lame kitten. _You fucking like that, don't you? You like my cock in your ass. You want me to rip your tough guts to bloody pieces._

Oh, Sandor longed to destroy, and his cock was no different. It wanted warm flesh, pounded, smashed, and stuffed beyond recognition. He sputtered a groan. He was there, really. Two more strokes would have done it. 

But that was when the banging started. 

Not rain. Not thunder. _Thwack, thwack, thwack_ , against the van’s metal siding. Something was trying to get in. A wild animal with weak paws. A big raccoon. Small bear. 

A persistent animal. 

An animal that _talked_. 

"Please," it whined. "Please help me." 

_Fuck this shit._ Sandor was up in an instant. He corralled his aching cock, took one broad stride and snatched Grandad's Model 97 down from its mount. Then he slammed open the side door, pointed, and racked. 

It wasn’t an animal, after all. 

It was a doll. 

Ivory skin glowed in the dark night. Blue eyes widened to full, glassy moons. She was porcelain set to flesh. She was haunted. A horror of a doll, scraggly limbed, curls loosed from their pretty braids and slicked to her temples. Blood seeped from her pale knees, down trembling legs to soggy trekking boots. Blood dripped from her palms, too. 

She had crossed them over her face in preparation for her next terrifying bit—a scream. 

Bloodcurdling, of course. Shoulda wilted Sandor’s cock to putty, except it curdled his blood in the _opposite_ direction. It stirred him right up. Sent steam hissing through his veins. The fucking nerve of the girl, barging in on him all bruised and bloodied when he was _this close_ getting off. 

Oh, he was gonna show her a real good time all right, only her nerve didn’t end there. She bolted, out beneath the thunder-soaked sky, into dark nothingness tangled with darker nothingness. Her milky skin made her easy game though. Her wobbly limbs were shit on ground studded with rocks and roots. She was down in three heartbeats, biting a mouthful of moss. 

Sandor groaned, put up his gun, and pursued. 

“Please don’t kill me,” the doll whimpered when he landed over her. He did her the kindness of blocking the worst of the rain with his bare shoulders, and that was the thanks he got? Fuck her. At least she knew his hands could do just as good of work as the gun. He stuck one out then, to grab her elbow and yank her back to standing. 

She put up a good fight. She flapped her scrawny arms and clawed at Sandor’s chest, which was too slick with rain for her nails to catch. And she chirped, God, did she chirp. “Please,” she kept moaning. “I’m lost. My friends—camping— three gummies—and the rain. I tried—but I couldn’t. Oh, _please,_ ” she wailed. “Please, please, please. I don’t want to die. I’m so _young._ I’ll do anything you say. Please, I’m _hungry_. Everything _hurts._ ” 

She wasn’t a doll. She was an annoying little bird. The type with colorful feathers that pecked and tittered until you wanted nothing more than to squash it down to rainbow fluff. God knew Sandor could squash—oh yes he could—but he didn’t. 

He pushed the bedraggled bird into his van, and slammed the door behind them. 

The van had never seemed so small. Sandor took up most of the cabin, stooped over the shivering girl, who was no more than a third his size. When he reached for the towels in the cabinet beside the wet bath, she backed up. She backed all the way into his bed, and gasped. 

She extended a shaky finger towards the magazine, trifold spread wide. "Yuck," she whined. 

"Don't talk to Unne like that," Sandor spat. "She didn't do shit to you." 

His arm shot past the girl. He grazed two perky nipples poking from her drenched tank-top before snatching up his Playboy, then he tossed it onto the small patch of counter at his hip. The girl's moon eyes followed him, low. 

"Were you—you were—oh my _God_."

You better fucking believe he was hard. Stiff as a goddamn board, dark denim plastered to quads that already hated captivity. He didn't give two shits. He had a half a mind to stick his cock in the bird's mouth right then and there, to put an end to the fucking noise. Instead he rasped, "What do you think I do in here? Knit? Pray? Fuck that. I do whatever the hell I want, that's what." 

To prove his point, Sandor towed the girl to the passenger bench and pushed her down. It was time to get her the fuck out of here. He threw a towel in her lap, smashed his face in another, then dropped into the driver's seat. 

"Where did you come from, little bird?" 

That was the nicest thing he'd said in half a decade, and the girl cried. Not a whole cry, just little wet peeps and sniffs that were probably worse than actual sobbing. She was pathetic. Pretty things always were. 

Sandor dropped his forehead to the steering wheel. "Answer me," he said through gritted teeth. When she refused, he swivelled around. His knees sunk into the vinyl-cushioned bench and caged her in. 

"I'm taking you home." 

"I don't know where that is," she blubbered into her hands. "Jeyne booked the campsite. I don't live here. I've never even _been_ to North Carolina. I go to school up north. I'm supposed to be having _fun_. It was taco night." 

Sandor had to take a real deep breath, like Dr. Pycelle told him. Nice and deep. Fill up the ribcage 'til it hurt, hold it, let it go. Only the little bird didn't like his breath on her face. She wrinkled up her little nose and peeked at him through her fingers. 

His scars. 

Was it stupid that he sometimes forgot about them these days? That weeks and months of solitude passed without a single flare-up? Long-leaf pines didn't cower at sight of him. Streams didn't divert beneath his boots. He kept the black bears distant, sure, but that was fine. 

The look the girl gave him curdled his blood the right way. He hated that look. He had seen thousands of versions of it in his sorry lifetime, and hers was by far the worst. It made sense. She was probably the prettiest creature on the whole damn planet. She should hate ugly things. 

Sandor did too. He hated more or less everything.

Not Unne. Not Mom or Maggie. Not the way the stars looked out on Lost Lake in late December, or the way you could breathe in clouds on Longs Peak.

And definitely not Stranger. 

But most things. Especially this thing—this skinny, sopping wet thing. Blood oozed into her socks. Pinkish water puddled at her boots, a pair of those hyped up Vivos. Pitiful. She was a slip of silk in human form, not cut out for existence. 

Sandor thought about spinning back to the wheel. He saw it all. He would put the keys in the ignition. He'd rumble up the maintenance trail, and dump the girl at the nearest rest stop. Maybe he'd even get lucky and find a ranger's station. Maybe he would just pull over at the first house, kick her to the curb, and flee. 

But the trail would be a river by now, the gravel a slurry that would send both Sandor and the girl headlong into the gorge. They would turn to pink mist together. Romantic, in a way. All of Sandor's problems would be solved. 

The girl most of all. 

"I don't even know your name," she sniffed. 

She had put her hands down, red palms facing up, on two pale thighs. Fuck's sake, she needed help. Those woods were fierce at night. Lightning was one divine coincidence away from flame. It was a miracle that a girl as light as her wasn't already swimming with the perch. 

Sandor unfurled halfway to pry open the cabinet above their heads. He fished out the first-aid kit in its clear plastic case and propped it on his leg. 

"Sandor," he grumbled. He ripped open a paper packet of gauze with his teeth and started dabbing the gummy blood on her knees. She winced, over-dramatic. Sandor got softer. 

"You're not going to ask my name back?" 

"I don't care," Sandor replied. 

"You're awful," she moaned. 

"I'm all you've got." 

There was definitely some pouting that Sandor didn't care to look at. He had a job to do, and he was gonna do it right. The rainwater made the scrapes seem worse than they were. Wide, but shallow. Only that first layer of pretty skin peeled off. Nothing scary. Not worth half her tears.

"Well, my name is Sansa," she said after a minute. "I'm on fall break, you see. It's my first year at Juilliard. That's where I go to school. I play the piano. And I'm supposed to be having fun, on fall break." 

Sandor didn't have shit to say to that, but his silence invited chatter. "I was having fun until Wylla dared me to eat all those gummies. Actually, it was fun for a while. Our hike, that is. The trail was so pretty. So _green_. Oh, I love how green it is down here. And there were the _cutest_ little mushrooms. White ones, with little pink specks. All folded up like sleeping fairies. Do you know about them?" 

He did, kinda, but he shook his head. He thought the girl might know more. 

"Well, all I know is that they were very cute, and there were so many. So of course I had to go searching for them, I simply had to. I went up a hill, around another hill. Down the hill. Then there was a stream, with a rock in its middle that looked like a wolf's head. Scary. I was certain Jeyne and Wylla following me. They always are. Except when I finally remembered them, they were gone. And then—and then—" She heaved in a breath, then collapsed. "That's when the rain happened. It was horrible. I was lost for _hours_."

"Sounds dreadful," Sandor said.

"Oh, it was. The worst part was, when I finally found someone, it was a scary old man with a gun. _Alone_. In the middle of the woods. You were going to kill me." 

"Was not." 

"It doesn't matter, because the actual worst part was that you were in the middle of—of— _touching yourself_. You were _so hard_. Talk about scary." 

That got Sandor to glance up, but her eyes were below his belt again. He shifted, restless. 

"Don't worry, little bird," he said. "All your chirping took care of that."

"I'm not a bird," she pouted. "I'm a pianist." 

Sandor grunted. He stuck matching tan Band-Aids on each of her knees, then reached for her palms. She had started ogling him again. His bare torso this time. He was plenty old, but he wasn't out of shape. Had a nice layer of insulation over muscles he maintained chopping wood and scrambling up mountainsides. 

If it wasn't the muscles she was after, it would be the scars. Three bullet holes, like Orion's Belt, below his ribcage. The six-inch slash above his heart. That could have done him in. Could have spared him this. Oh well. 

Maybe she liked the tattoos. The dog tags on his ribs. Eagle, Globe, and Anchor spread between his pecs. _Semper Fidelis_. He was a faithful pup alright. A devil dog if there ever was one. Until his knees quit working. Until it was gunfire and burning buildings and screams and smoke 24/7. Waking nightmares. Screaming, screaming. That was what booze was for. Weed was better. Those white rectangle pills Dr. Pycelle prescribed were best of all. 

He could use one right now. Sansa's horror movie doll-eyes had Sandor's heart racing. His thoughts too. He didn't like how soft her hands were. How her cuticles were unpicked, her nails filed to identical round peaks. Her hands were a fraction of his. Frail. Sandor wondered if she had hollow bones like a bird. If he curled her fingers into his fist, how soon would they shatter? Would she scream first, or cry first? 

Would she run? 

Or would Sandor patch her up? He could put those mushed up fingers in splints made of skewers and duct tape. Take her back to Wylla and Jeyne in the morning. "She's your problem now," he'd tell them. Or maybe he wouldn't say shit. Just give the girl a shove and kick rocks.

Maybe he'd never give her back at all. 

"What happened?" she whispered, after Sandor wrapped up her palm. 

It was his fault, really. He had brought her hand up to his mouth to rip off the end of the tape. He should have expected it to stay, to paw at his hair. It was in loose, wet strings over his burns. Not nearly enough coverage. It invited the little bird in. 

But before she made contact, he swatted her away. "I don't want to talk about it." 

"Do they hurt?" 

"I said, I don't want to talk about it." 

Her hand came back. What part of no didn't she understand? But Sandor let her get close. He let her think she could steal this little bit of him. She toyed with his hair first, trying to push it back behind his ear. Fat fucking chance—there was nothing there but a crusty black hole. She figured that out, and frowned. She went for his cheek, the dirty thief, but Sandor caught her this time. 

He gripped that puny wrist of hers. He gripped it hard, hard enough for her to know. 

_I could crush this._

_You._

Sandor jerked her closer. He force-fed her his breath. "You want a cute little story, sweetheart? Here's one for you. This old man used to be a boy. That boy had a brother. A nasty brother. So nasty, that one day, he stuck my face in the fireplace. I just wanted that damn GI Joe. And fuck me, I guess. I got this instead. Take a look, girl. Take a nice, long look." 

He slicked his hair over his good side and put the bad one up against her nose. He felt its tip on his cheek, a tiny cold dot on flaky black skin. He hoped her big dumb eyes liked this sight. A banquet of terror. Fuck her stupid taco night. She'd dine on this instead. 

Her frantic breath beat against his cheek like a moth's wings. "You're scaring me," she whimpered. 

Oh, that was the last fucking straw. 

"You think you're scared?" Sandor roared. He snatched up her other wrist and pressed his forehead to hers. "Fuck you, you spoiled little cunt. I was fucking scared. It was my fucking face in the fire, not yours." 

He had hated every single look she'd given him, but he hated this one most. His ugly reflection grew shinier and shinier in her eyes. She closed them, and two big crocodile tears spilled down her freckled cheeks. 

"Please don't kill me," was all she said. 

Sandor dropped her wrists. He leaned all the way back, until his chair bumped against the wheel. He folded up his arms.

"Oh, I'm definitely going to kill you," he told her. "I love killing pretty little girls like you. I hunt them down in the woods, I stick them in my van, and I skin them alive. I'm on the run. They're making a Netflix special about me, did you know that? The Scar-faced Killer. It could use some work for sure, but they've got the spirit of the thing, don't you think? It's because of my scars, little bird. Scar-faced? Ha-ha-ha." 

He expected the tears this time. The girl tipped back her head, opened up, and she wailed. She wailed so loud that for the first time in hours, Sandor couldn't hear the rain batter the roof. He grinned. Fuck the rain. 

"What?" he went on. "You're not even going to run? I've got a dozen knives in this fucking tin can, and I keep all of them sharp. My K-Bar would love nothing more than to slip into that pretty skin. I'll drive it out west and turn it to leather in the desert. Make you into a wallet, or maybe a canteen. I could use a good canteen. You'd make a pretty canteen." 

"Y-y-you're so mean," Sansa stuttered. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles like a child mid-tantrum. Then she swiped away her snot with the back of her palm. That was cute. Real cute. This girl was in college? Doubtful, but it made Sandor feel less bad about the fact that his cock was getting hard, again. 

He liked watching her squirm. And there was more than one way to steal someone's skin. 

"If you looked like this, you'd be mean too," he spat. 

Sansa smeared away the last of her tears, but her little chin wobbled like more could come. An insipid threat, that. "Well, I look like me," she moped. "I'm only trying to be nice." 

Truthfully, Sandor didn't know much about nice. He tried to think of everything the girl said to him, everything that wasn't about her imminent death. The only thing that came to mind was her first words, the ones she had shouted in competition with the thunder: _Please_. _Please help me._

She had begged. She was begging again on the bench. She shivered in a puddle of rainwater, a wet towel draped over a wetter tank-top and pair of shorts. Two dark plaits shimmied over her little chest. A real fine beggar, this girl. This silly, pretty wisp of sodden silk. 

"You have to stay the night," Sandor sighed. He ran a hand over his hair to coax it back into place. "I won't be able to make it up the road in this weather. Do you understand that, little bird?" 

She nodded. 

"Do you want something dry to sleep in?" 

"Um..." 

Sandor saw the gears turn in her head, and knew she was thinking the exact same thing. _What do you even have for me?_

"I can get you a t-shirt, and that's about it. It's the only thing that'll fit you." 

"Not even pajamas?" 

Sandor cocked his good brow. "Do I look like I own fucking pajamas?" 

For the first time that night, she smiled. But she tried to push back to a pout straight away. It was good enough for Sandor. He stood, squeezed past the girl, and rifled through the cabinet beside the bench with all his clothes—four t-shirts, two flannels, and an extra pair of jeans. It was all Sandor needed. 

He picked out his Hard Rock Warsaw shirt for her. The yellow logo was cracked and faded, but it still held together at the seams. It would do. "You can change in there," Sandor said, with a nod to the wet bath. 

Sansa shuffled inside, and Sandor tried not to think of the fact that he'd never had a girl in the van before. Not even a leathery, plastic-titted cougar. Not a single one. The van was his and his alone. 

The first girl to stay the night, and it's a willowy teen with dew-drop skin and impeccable manners.

Some fucking luck. 

Sandor adjusted his balls and fell back into the driver's seat. It would be a long night. 

The girl came out frowning, naturally. She cradled a phone in her palms, screen cracked to shit. 

"It won't turn on," she said. Go figure. 

Sandor hesitated for a second before he got up to help. He used that time to steal the tiniest glimpse of those long, milky legs. The hem of his shirt barely covered her little ass. Barely covered the sweet secret between her legs. She had better keep herself sealed up. Better keep real still, or her secret would come right out. 

It was a good second. 

Then he took the phone and nudged her back to the bench. She curled up in a tight ball, and pulled Sandor's shirt over her knees so that her shins read _Warsaw_. Smart girl. "I'm hungry," she complained down to her toes. She wiggled them. "And I want socks. Get me some socks, please." 

Little birds required a lot of upkeep. First she wanted the socks, fine, Sandor had an extra pair. They were thick grey wool that slouched down to the girl's ankles, but at least got her to stop shivering. Even so, she needed something hot to drink. "I want cocoa," she chirped. "You have to have cocoa." 

Not Sandor. 

He had a jar of instant coffee and a stale bag of Sleepy Time from last winter. She wanted the tea. So Sandor got that going, then remembered the bird was hungry too. He fished out his sack of basmati, dumped some in his blue enamel pot, and stuck it behind the kettle. While he had the rice out, he poured some in a bowl with the girl's phone. That was supposed to get it dry. Sandor wouldn't know for sure—he treated his phone right. 

His phone was in perfect working order, which meant he should probably let her use it. Service was shot to hell out here but it never hurt to try. She at least needed the option. Sandor grabbed it from its home on the dash and passed it to the girl. 

"See if you can call Wylla or Jeyne," he said. 

"Oh," she puffed. "Well, I don't have their numbers memorized or anything." She thumbed through all the apps on his home screen, then looked up, brow furrowed. "Where's your Instagram?" 

"Don't have that," Sandor grumbled.

"Twitter?" 

"No." 

The girl groaned. "I guess I’ll try Facebook."

She found the icon and opened up. Sandor didn't want to see her nosing around his profile—it made his right cheek as hot as the left. Thankfully, the kettle whistled, and he set up Sansa with her tea, in a mug that said #1 Dad in rainbow block letters. He even pulled down the little tray table in front of her so she didn't have to hold the cup while she typed. 

He didn't watch her type. He _really_ didn't want to watch her type. So he stirred up the rice, got the lid on, and decided to take care of himself. He thought long and hard about the good whiskey, the Lagavulin 16. He pictured every golden drop slipping into his gut. So warm. Best blanket there ever was. 

But he shouldn't. He knew better. 

So instead he reached for a bottle of that stupid CBD-infused drink he'd gotten alongside the beer. Strawberry lavender Vybes. Damn waste of money, all that hipster shit. He unscrewed the cap and downed half of the pink liquid in one go. 

"Where's your dog?" Sansa asked. She held out Sandor's phone with his profile picture pulled up to full screen—Stranger, wearing his red USMC bandana, smiling. Sandor only logged on to Facebook to talk other Marines off the ledge, because everything else was pictures of Stranger. His gut couldn't handle much of that. It couldn't handle it right now. The Vybes gurgled. 

"Dead," Sandor got out. 

Sansa frowned. "That's sad. He's so handsome." 

"Very." 

Sandor tossed back the rest of the bottle while the girl went on another quest through his phone. "Where's your music?" she asked, taking a plaintive sip of tea. "Don't tell me you don't listen to music." 

"I've got plenty of fucking music," Sandor replied. "But not on there." 

He took the single step required to get him over to the dash and went through the black zip-up folder that held all his CDs. Yeah, CDs. All those streaming services were a big time scam, for listeners and artists alike. If Sandor couldn't hold his music, he didn't want to hear it. He flipped back and forth through his collection and decided on something the little bird was sure to like. 

He slid the disc into the player on the center console, turned up the volume, and hit play. 

"Schubert," Sansa chimed, as soon as the first chords struck the air. "No, wait—this is Mitsuko." 

Sandor nodded. Smart girl. Best arrangement there was of Sonata 19. 

"She captures his loneliness perfectly," Sansa said. 

"The madness," Sandor added. 

"It's all in the second act—the modulations, the sforzandos. He never returns to the tonic, not truly. He went mad." 

"He died," Sandor said. 

"He died," Sansa echoed back. 

Sandor went to check on the rice while Mitsuko pounded out Schubert's swan song. The patter of rain and bubbling pot melded with the piano to make a different song. An arrangement Sandor had never heard before. It was almost pretty, that song. 

The rice was ready. Sandor scooped it all into a bowl, one of his mom's with green daisies running around the rim. It seemed sad all on its own, so Sandor sliced off a generous tablespoon of butter and plopped it on top of the steamy white grains. That was better. A real meal now. 

A meal that had the girl smiling. Her teeth were prettier when she wasn't using her mouth for screams and cries. She covered them up while she ate, with one of her bandaged hands. The other she used to peck at the phone screen. Sandor thought she was still trying for one of her friends until she gasped and dropped her fork mid-bite.

"That's them!" she called out. She thrust the phone up in Sandor's direction. "The mushrooms—the pretty ones! You _do_ know about them." 

Guilty as charged. Yeah, Sandor had taken a picture before the storm touched down. The folks on iNaturalist were damn good at identifying plants. He was gonna submit the picture as soon as he got service. Figure out the name. Names were good. It was like having a friend. 

But he hadn't gotten that far. 

"I don't know much, little bird," he told her. "I was going to try to find out." 

"Then do it," she came back. 

For whatever reason, Sandor followed the bird's command. Obviously the internet was the easiest solution, but they didn't really have that. He had to go diving in the upper cabinet again, through his stack of guides and maps, until he found what he was looking for— _Native Plants of North Carolina_. 

Sandor always picked up books like these when he crossed state lines, especially if he was planning to stay for a while. He'd hit a used book store before plunging back into the wilderness and study up. Always gotta know your surroundings. 

He slid into his chair, careful not to knock over the little bird's table setting. His knees sunk into her perch, but she was all folded up still. A chick in a nest. Sandor's nest.

She wanted to watch him flip through the guide. "Not enough color," she complained about the black and white illustrations. The guide was from 1973—what did she expect? Books weren't supposed to be fucking Instagram. They were slower. So Sandor turned page after yellowed page, eyes peeled for the little fairy mushrooms. But there was nothing about them in the fungi section. 

Not until the very last page. 

_Monotropa uniflora_.

It wasn't a mushroom. It was a mycoheterotroph. A parasite that ate fungi that ate tree roots, and somehow looked like a home for tiny magical creatures. Also called ghost pipes. 

Sandor read the whole description out loud to Sansa, because she insisted. 

"Fairy pipes," she declared when he had finished. "I want to call them fairy pipes." 

"I mean, if you—"

"Wait—listen!" 

Sansa stuck a finger to his lips. If he parted them, he would have been able to taste her fingerprint. Instead, he straightened up. He cocked an ear like the girl had, and listened. 

It wasn't another late night intruder. It was Mitsuko. The second act. Adagio. 

Sandor knew a lot about going mad—not syphilis, definitely not syphilis—and the feeling was like this: you were climbing a staircase, but the stairs fell out from beneath you. Sometimes another step would come to catch you. Other times, you would just fall. 

Madness was falling. Falling down to the depths of hell. Flame would start to seem like home. Down would start to feel like up. So then you were tricked into climbing again. To quads aching, glutes on fire. But you were climbing to hell. You were doing the devil's work for him. You struggled, you sweated, you wept. You fell. You climbed. 

And you always, always ended up in hell. 

Schubert's notes trapped and released Sandor. Trapped and released. It was Uchida who rendered the soul of the piece. She gave Sandor the loneliness. 

That was how the second act came to a close. 

Sandor crawled in cold sand. Each chord was a sip of springwater. Each sip was distant from its neighbor, but strung together through silence by its beauty. God, Sandor wanted the beauty. He wanted resolve. But it sputtered out in the end. Sputtered to a minor chord. 

It sputtered to silence. 

Sandor dwelled in the silence. A strange old friend. A false friend, because there wasn't any silence—there was rain. _Pit pat, pit pat, pit pat, pit pat_.

And there was breath. 

The girl's breath. 

Sandor hadn't let himself listen to it before, because he knew his gut wouldn't like it, but it was there. A swan song. A fluttering of fragile wings.

"You should get another dog," the swan told him. 

Sandor took a psychotherapist-approved inhale. Let it out. "I'm still grieving, little bird." 

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She reached over the table and put her hand on his fist. "I didn't mean to rush you. It's just—it seems like—" 

"I need a dog." 

"You need a dog." 

Sandor opened up his fist so he could swallow her hand whole. He didn’t know why. But he liked it. He liked her hand a lot. He smoothed his thumb along all her slender, breakable fingers. He imagined her playing the third act instead of Mitsuko. Juilliard, she had said. Must be a very talented bird. She really needed this hand. She needed it whole. 

Sandor thought of all the things that could crush her fingers to pulp. There were so, so many. He hated them. Every last one. 

Rain fell. The melody spiraled through madness and loneliness and back to silence. 

At the end of it, Sansa yawned. She took her hand back so she could stretch her arms up, then caught the hem of the t-shirt before it strayed above her knees. 

“Time for bed?” Sandor asked. 

“Time for bed,” she agreed. 

Sandor's bed was for her, of course. She crawled in and curled right up in his comforter, king-size down with a black and yellow flannel duvet. She fit nicely inside the cramped back half of the van, nothing but wall-to-wall mattress. She looked like she belonged. 

She liked it too. She was smiling. "This is good," she told Sandor, who hovered over her in the small gap at the foot of the bed, a would-be doorway between the fridge and the wet bath. He tried out a smile back, even though the burnt half of his lips couldn't quite hold it. "I'm glad I'm not dead. Then today _really_ would have sucked." 

"I'm glad you're not dead, too," Sandor replied, because it was all he could think to say. And even though he had run out of words, he lingered. He liked looking at the girl. Her braids had dried somewhat, and little red curls sprouted all around her head. They sparkled like spun copper in the overhead light. So, so pretty. 

He wished he had already fled when she reached for the books in his cubby. She plucked up Pride and Prejudice, and Sandor's good cheek filled with blood. 

"You like Pride and Prejudice?" she asked, incredulous. 

Sandor shrugged. 

"You're a weird old man," she said, absently flipping through the dog-eared pages. "I mean, it's the most perfect romance ever, of course. Jane Austen knows literally everything about love." 

"One poor sonnet will kill it stone dead," Sandor grumbled under his breath. 

Sansa's eyes shot up. They narrowed. Then she scooted over to Sandor on her knees, close enough that he could count the dots on her nose. "So what do _you_ recommend to encourage affection?" she teased, sticking a finger to his chest. 

Sandor dropped even lower. His shadow gobbled up all her pretty freckles. 

"Dancing," he whispered to her lips. "Even if one's partner is barely tolerable." 

Believe it or not, the girl _licked_ him. She stuck her tongue out and gave the tip of Sandor's nose the sweetest little lap. He jerked up so quickly that his head smacked into the ceiling. _Thwump_. Sansa fell back, giggling. Laughing at his stupid fucking face, probably. His good cheek glowed red hot. The bad one—the bad one felt fine, oddly enough. 

"Why the fuck—" he started, rubbing the sore spot on his skull. But then the girl pushed out her tongue, _again_. "Alright, it's fucking bed time for little birds. Lights off." 

Sandor hit the switch and turned. He heard something that might have been a _good night_ but wasn't gonna check for certain. He grabbed his Playboy off the counter, got his phone from the table, then punched off the main cabin lights. 

When he dropped back into his chair, he breathed. Some fucking girl. Christ. He popped the glove compartment open and pulled out his bottle of 10mg mints. Took three for good measure. Edibles might have the little bird high in the sky, but this would have Sandor rooted back to earth. It would take away the latent ache in his joints. He'd had too much muscle for far too fucking long. His bones were tired. 

The prospect of a nice buzz gave Sandor the confidence he needed to swipe open his phone. Last thing the girl looked at was another picture of Stranger, from his tenth birthday. The hound was sitting up on his chair at the kitchen table, a plate of bloody porterhouse in front of him. He ate the whole damn thing. 

Sandor gave the screen a quick peck. _Good boy._

Then he moved on. He didn't want to know, but he needed to know. So he opened up his Facebook messages, and clicked the conversation that Sansa had started with Wylla and Jeyne. 

_Hi it's Sansa don't worry I'm safe I was lost FOREVER and my phone is like very dead but Sandor found me and he's taking care of me. staying the night here (in a van? lol) it sounds sketchy but I'm fine PLEASE don't worry but next time pleeeease don't abandon me?? i was in the rain for HOURS like literal hours and i don't even know the name of our campsite. UGH. anyway just lmk when you get this and i'll see you in the morning (if i can even find you?) otherwise i guess i'll just live in the woods with Sandor forever which would probably be nice honestly as long as it stops raining_

_oh and here's a picture for proof im alive_

The picture was cute. Really fucking cute. She was all smiles, nose scrunched, eyes squeezed tight. That picture got to live in Sandor's camera roll. Nice. 

But there wasn't a response, and the picture was still sending. Might take all night to deliver. Sandor hoped they weren't calling in the National Guard or some shit. That would be a real fucking fiasco. At least the girl would vouch for him. 

He read her message over and over. Something about her words made his guts hot like he'd taken a shot of whiskey. No booze, and he still got that sweet warmth. Her picture had the same effect, except the heat pooled lower. And once his cock was half-hard, he got to thinking about the way her legs looked sticking out of his t-shirt. After he thought about that, he thought about her tongue. What a perfect tongue. Small, pink, wet. Would she lick him again if he asked? He'd like that. 

Sandor looked over his shoulder. She was only a lump in the covers, probably fast asleep. He palmed his erection, uncomfortably bound by his jeans. His meat could barely fit in them when he was soft, let alone fully fucking loaded. 

Would it be so terrible if he beat one out? The rain would drown out any sounds. It was pitch black, except for the occasional flash of lightning. But if the lightning came with thunder, and the girl woke up—

Sandor's cock reared against its denim confines. 

He could give that tongue something else to lick. 

"Sandor?" 

The sound of his name did nothing to soothe his pulse. It raged, everywhere. 

"Sandor?" the little bird peeped again. "Sandor, I'm cold." 

Sandor smashed a hand over his face, real good. He stifled a groan. "What do you want from me?" he called behind him. 

"Help," was her reply. 

_This fucking girl_. "It's sixty-five degrees out. That comforter is warm as shit. You're fine, little bird. Go to sleep." 

"Just come here, Sandor. Please. Pretty, pretty please." 

Sandor really did groan, then. But he got up and took his magazine for cover. He wasn't gonna give the girl another eyeful of that. He smacked the lights back on, and the little bird peeked out from the covers, blinking. 

"Why do you have Unne?" she asked. 

Sandor shifted his weight, glanced down to the swell shielded by seventy soft pages of naked girls. "She lives in here," Sandor replied. "I came to put her back." 

"Oh," Sansa breathed. "Will you stay with me, too?" 

"Why would I do that?" 

"Because you're hot, and I'm cold." 

"I won't fit." 

"I don't care." 

"Little bird," he growled. 

"Sandor," she chirped right back. "You're supposed to be helping me. I'm _wounded,_ remember?"

Oh, the little bird put her big blue eyes to work then. Could she make them sparkle at will? Fucking spooky. 

And goddamn brilliant. Smartest bird there ever was. 

"Fine," Sandor grumbled. "Get all the way over, and keep your eyes shut. Got it?" 

Sansa nodded and scooted to the far side of the bed. Sandor stashed Unne in her cubby, then wrestled off his boots in the narrow walkway, one eye on the girl to make sure she didn't cheat. The lights went off again, and Sandor squeezed in behind her. 

The flimsy metal frame creaked under his weight. The foam mattress sagged, and almost sent the girl rolling straight into him. She would have, if Sandor hadn't stuck out an arm to keep her away. He propped her up as he shifted onto his side. 

There. This would do. Her, an arm's length away. But what was he supposed to do with that arm, now that he was settled? 

Sansa answered the question for him. She groped behind her, found Sandor's hand, and put it on her hip. "Come closer," she said to the wall. 

Sandor gave her an inch. That was all he could do. He couldn't touch her fucking hip _and_ will his cock to softness at the same time. An impossible feat, and Sandor was no hero. He was already sacrificing enough, signing up for a night of no sleep with a nonstop boner. 

And her _smell_ , her fucking smell. Her ruffled up braids rested _that close_ to his nose. He breathed deep. Rainwater. Sweat, maybe, but mostly flowers. Honeysuckle. A whole patch of honeysuckle. He wanted to pluck her off the vine. Drink her one, sweet, perfect drop of dew. 

"Closer," the little bird whispered again. She tugged his hand. 

"Little bird, no, I can't—" 

" _Please_ ," she begged. "Please, please, _please_."

Sandor grunted. Fine. She'd get exactly what she asked for. He shifted his hips over, one inch, then another. 

And then, contact. 

As soon his cock grazed Sansa's ass, she gasped. She scrambled up, and this time, she was the one to flip the light switch. She peeled up the covers, and glared. 

"Why are you so hard?" she whined down to him. 

Sandor pushed up so he could be taller. He leaned in close. "Why are you so fucking pretty?" 

Sandor honestly didn't expect her kiss. He wouldn't have expected a peck, let alone this. Her lips connected fully with his. They were already parted. She bit his lip. Then her tongue invaded. She swept it along Sandor's teeth and filled his mouth with her taste, springwater sweet. 

So he drank her up. His tongue was stronger. It pushed back, stuffed her to the brim. He gripped her cheeks so he could scour deep inside her skull. She whimpered into him. He swallowed that down, too. 

Goddamn refreshing. 

He pulled her all the way to his lap. Sansa straddled him. She pushed her sweet secret against his aching cock and petted every part of him she could get—shoulders, pecs, then down to his abs. She liked his abs. Cold fingers traced soft contours, then ventured even lower. 

"Little bird," Sandor breathed inside her mouth when her hands found his belt buckle. "Little bird, you don't have to do this." 

"I want to," she whispered back. 

"Why?"

"Because you smell good." 

That earned her one hell of a kiss. Sandor's teeth went for her lips, those soft pink pillows. He tore off what he could then bit at her tongue. He wanted it gone, so he could stick his tongue all the way down her throat. Then he could eat those pretty words of hers. Every single one. 

God, it was happening. It was really happening. Gentle hands undid his buckle, unbuttoned him, then pulled down his zipper. When those pretty fingers curled around his cock, Sandor groaned.

The girl _gasped_.

"Oh my God," she wailed, wide eyes on the slab of red meat between them. "Oh, no. No, no, no." 

"What?" Sandor hissed. 

"You're too big, way too big. Oh my God." 

His cock definitely liked the sound of that, but the girl squealed and dropped him. She clasped her hands over her mouth. 

"He got _bigger_ ," she whined. "I'm too small. You'll never fit." 

"Who said anything about fitting?" Sandor shot back. "He was minding his own damn business until you came along." 

"Well—well—" 

"Well _what_?"

Sansa's eyes pulled up. She batted long lashes and twisted a loose curl at her temple. "Well, I at least want to try." 

Oh, she was in trouble now. Silly little bird. Sandor shoved her back into the pillows with one palm square against her collarbones. He yanked that t-shirt over her hips, pried open her legs, and settled himself against her secret. 

No longer a secret. 

The girl was fucking soaked. She was Linville Gorge, mid-September, torrential downpour soaked. A whole fucking river gushed over Sandor's cock, slicked him right up. He got a good look, too. She had a little triangle of red hair over the pinkest cunt he'd ever seen. 

The _smallest_. She wasn't a liar, the little bird. 

Sandor's hands roamed. He wanted every inch of her skin. He started with her smooth stomach, full of rice. Sandor's rice. Then he felt up her little tits. Small like her pussy. Nipples just as pink. He gave them a nice twist. Got them a little redder and much perkier. 

He got her to moan. 

"Are you—are you going to try?" she whimpered. 

Sandor forced a breath through his nose. He put his palms on her inner thighs and eased her open with his thumbs. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, little bird?" He circled around her clit, but never landed there. "You're gonna sit in my fucking van, whine about my fucking cock, when you've got this"—he thrust a finger upstream—"tucked between your legs?" 

"Sandor," she whined. She wiggled her hips, the naughty girl. She tried to pull Sandor's finger in deeper, but he took it out. It glistened with her pristine waters, and Sandor was thirsty. He stuck that finger in his mouth and sucked it clean.

"I'll give you my cock," he said. He grabbed her hips and glided along her wetness. "I'll give you every last inch. And I'll tell you something, sweetheart. It's definitely too big. _Way too big_. A small cunt like yours—I'll split you in two. Crack open those pretty ribs, and let your guts spill right out. That's what I'm going to do to you. That's what we're going to _try out_. Would you like that?" 

The girl mewled, her face all scrunched up. But little kitten noises weren't going to get them anywhere. Sandor grabbed her chin and shook it until her eyes opened back up. 

"Answer me, little bird. You have to tell me—do you want my cock?" 

She pouted, hard, then let out the whiniest, "Yes," imaginable. 

It was all Sandor needed. 

He thought about going slow, for maybe half a second. But fuck that. He plunged to her very end. And God, did he stretch her. Forced her tiny hole open 'til it gaped four times as wide. Her dripping wet walls clenched around his cock and locked him in place. 

He throbbed something fierce and dropped down, hands on either side of the girl's head. And you know what she did? She gave him her big moon eyes. She shifted those slender hips, bucked right into him. 

And she dragged him deeper. 

All the way down. 

He was in her guts, now. 

Sandor's jaw tensed. His entire body went rigid as he begged his blood to settle. 

His cock spurred anyway. 

"Oh my God," Sansa gasped. "Sandor, I felt that." 

"Felt what?" he replied through tight teeth. 

"You were going to come," she whined. "You can't come inside me. I didn't even take my pill today." 

"I'm not—" he bit back a groan as his cock lunged a second time, the fucking disobedient waste of flesh. "I wasn't going to come."

"You _so_ were. I'm small, remember? I'm delicate. I'm just a little bird. I can feel _everything_ , and right now I feel you. You're throbbing. You're throbbing _so hard,_ I know you're going to—" 

Sandor stuffed his fingers in the girl's mouth. His middle and ring finger went right the fuck in and shut her up quick. He was doing both of them a favor. She tried to peep but he pressed her tongue down real good. Kept her jaw tight with a thumb nestled at her throat. 

Better. 

Now, he could fuck her in peace. Sandor went searching for her ribs. They were up there somewhere. Past her cervix, definitely. Up through her womb. He could put a baby there, pill or no pill. He wasn't going to, of course. But he could. 

If he made it north from there, he'd get to the good stuff. Warm red guts. He liked to think he was there now. That whatever was puffing out of the girl's belly wasn't late night dinner—it was him. All ten inches. That ought to be enough to get into her ribcage. Rustle up her lungs. Her breath was coming real shallow. Each thrust forced out more air. 

Between her lungs was the sweetest treat of all: her heart. 

He felt it now, all around him. She pulsed. Sandor circulated like the rest of her blood. He swam in it. Warm like he'd never known. 

If he could crack her open, he'd rest inside. Wouldn't that be nice. 

Sandor dropped down onto one forearm. His hand stayed in Sansa's mouth. Her tongue was busy, lapping his fingers up. Her pretty teeth bit into him. She wanted her taste, too. She could have it. 

But she was a greedy bird. As soon as Sandor came close, she groped for him. Her hands fluttered across his chest and travelled up. She didn't even try to brush Sandor's hair from his face. She slipped a hand beneath it to cradle his crisped-up jaw. 

A chill shot through Sandor's spine and he straightened. Got his face far out of reach. 

He was never going to let that happen again. 

Sandor sunk a hand into the girl's thigh and flipped her over. He pushed her head to the pillows and got her back all arched up so her ass made a pretty heart shape. He stuffed his cock into its center. 

"No fair," she whined. 

"What's not fair?" Sandor asked. He slid out a bit, then rammed back inside her. Sansa moaned. She shifted on her knees but couldn't go anywhere—Sandor kept her down with a hand bigger than her entire head. 

"I'm going to come," she replied. "If you—if you keep doing it like that, I'm going to come. It's not fair."

"Fair?" Sandor growled. "You know what isn't fair? I was going to have a nice evening alone. Eat a steak, drink a beer. Jack off. Five times, ten times, fucking twenty times if I wanted, but no. That's when you flew in. I had to spend my night taking care of a bruised-up little bird. So I'll tell you what. I'm going to take care of you real good. Do you want to know how?" 

Sansa whimpered. Her cunt throbbed. That was all Sandor needed. 

"I'm going to turn you into a puddle," he went on. He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, then pushed a braid aside to clear up her neck. His fingers idled there. "A sweet little puddle of all your juices. You'll be nothing but water in the sheets, soaked through. I'm going to save those sheets. Stick them in a plastic tub. Keep them. And when the rain stops, I'll carry you down into the gorge. Then I'll open you up, and I'll you wring out." Sandor's hand curled tight around her throat. He squeezed. "I'll put every last drop of you in the river. You'll be in the ocean in less than a week, nothing but saltwater and fish shit. How’s that for fucking fair?" 

Sansa frowned. "You're mean," she whispered into the pillow. 

“Oh yeah?" Sandor leaned down. Got his scars inches from her sad little face. "You’re fucking annoying," he rasped. 

Sandor smashed his palm against her cheek and pulled up. He took hold of her hips, and he plowed. He churned up her insides. An unholy combination of his cock, her juices, and her silky pink flesh boiled together. He pounded against her heart, and still, he needed more. 

He scooped her up. One arm slid between her tits and braced her by the throat. The other snuck between her legs. He teased her little clit as he pressed her spine against his chest. She didn’t have any more chirps, only squeaks and whimpers. 

He had all of her. All of her bones, all her blood, all her pretty organs. They were bundled up in his arms in one fragile package. He could, if he wanted. He could squeeze. He would snap those bones. Puncture the rest to soggy red pulp. 

But he needed her heart. He needed that pulse to flutter against his cock. He needed her blood to keep him warm. So he held her just close enough. 

_I could_ , he was telling her. _I could_.

“S-S-Sandor,” she stuttered. “Sandor, I’m—I’m—oooh—” 

Oh God yeah, she was coming. Her little cunt clenched, once, twice, and Sandor barely managed to pull out before he came, too. He dropped the girl and spilled his load all across her backside. 

“Fuck, Sansa,” he groaned. “Fucking pretty little bird. Fuck.” 

He pushed out everything he had, a whole damn sack's worth. When that was done, he bent down and licked up his mess. Drank up his come, his sweat, the girl's sweat, and all her extra sweetness. Then he dropped to her side with his hands behind his head, lungs heaving, a salty sting in his scars. The little bird had fucked the piss outta him. Christ. Fucking teenage tart. 

She was still face-down in the pillows, limp as ragdoll. 

“You there, little bird?” Sandor asked. 

“I’m dead,” she mumbled back. “You killed me.” 

“That’s a shame. I was just starting to like you.” 

That got her to perk up. “Really?” 

“Maybe," Sandor answered with a wink. 

The girl came back from the dead to snuggle up against him. She nestled her sweet little face beneath his armpit and stretched her arm across his chest. But when she peeked up, Sandor realized he'd put her on the wrong side. The side where lank hair barely concealed grisly black flesh. Sandor braced for the worst—her touch, or maybe her tears. A fresh stream of regret after she realized she’d been gored by a disfigured old man. 

Instead, she smiled. No teeth, only plush pink lips and eyes that shimmered like a lake at sundown. “Sandor,” she cooed, tracing the _Semper Fidelis_ inked between his pecs. “You never told me your dog’s name.” 

For a split second, Sandor lost his air. His next inhale tasted like honeysuckle. He untucked his arm from behind his head, then pulled Sansa in by her shoulders. He rested his scars in the floral softness of her hair.

“Stranger,” he exhaled. “His name was Stranger.” 

“That’s a good name,” Sansa said. 

“He was a good dog,” Sandor said back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you made it this far, congrats lol. This piece is first and foremost an experiment in writing craft, especially POV. Writing is inherently self indulgent, so I am indulging myself by writing what I want to read: bitter, black-hearted, beauty-averse Sandor Clegane (who may or may not be lying to himself _a lot_ ). That's my dog. He's a good boy deep down. 
> 
> For writing updates, I'm on Twitter @_prettybadmagic. I'm currently 60k deep into the draft of the sequel of Singing at the Stars and you can follow my progress there. 
> 
> 'Til next time!


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